Ceteris Paribus
by scarletgold
Summary: The first time Draco Malfoy fell in love was a disaster. The second time, all things being equal, seemed to require a miracle. A story of love, redemption, and second chances.
1. Prologue: Make it Rain

**AUTHOR'S NOTE (PLEASE READ ME FIRST!)**

This is a re-conceptualization of the fic "If in the Twilight," of which I've written four chapters before I decided to discontinue it. I sincerely apologize to those who have been reading it thus far, but it really wasn't working for me and I as the author was very dissatisfied with it. So I sat down with my rough outline and decided to change somethings to make the writing more decisive and the characters more consistent. I hope you'll forgive me! Anyway, this is hopefully better written.

This is a Drastoria fic, exploring how a character such as Draco Malfoy, who's got quite a history, manages to find love. I find it really curious, and so tried to come up with my own answers. Happy reading. :)

 **DISCLAIMER:** Jo Rowling owns Harry Potter.

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

Rain is angrily pounding the pavement when he finally opens the door. For a second, he hesitates, and almost gives in to the temptation of slipping back inside the warm comfort of her apartment. But then he crushes the impulse with considerable resolve and closes the door behind him. He feels a painful squeeze in his chest when he hears it click shut, a reminder that it is the last time he will hear it. More than that, he will never again see her bright, welcoming smile as she opens her door to him. He stands on her doorstep for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. He feels his hand still tingling from the spell he has just cast, although perhaps it is merely the effect of a new and heightened awareness of his own self, because he is now very truly alone.

And then he lets go of the doorknob and almost dazedly makes his way down the flight of steps, water mercilessly beating him down like punishment from the heavens. He feels like letting the heavens do so, like spreading his arms and screaming a challenge to the skies - _Is that all you've got? I'm still standing!_ Water quickly seeps through his robes, and he thinks he ought to apparate, but realizes that he will likely to get splinched with his mind on her bedside than anywhere else in the world. So instead, he pushes soaked blonde hair away from his eyes and starts to trudge along, grateful for the rain and the darkness that served well to hide his anguish. His vision is a blur - mostly because of the downpour, but also because of the tears that had treacherously welled out of his eyes.

His mind's eye, however, is torturously clear. He could readily see her sleeping form as her bare back rises and falls gently in time with her breathing. It's an unconscious habit of hers, sleeping with her back to the ceiling instead of against the mattress of her bed. Her long, dark locks seemed to have a life of their own tonight, spreading all over her pillow and partly covering her face. He remembers how it felt to brush the stray tendrils away, ever so tenderly, afraid she would wake. He could clearly see her face - as for the last time tonight he had been memorizing every detail - the curve of her cheek, the plane of her forehead, the angles of her jaw, the softly sloping lines of her lips… not that he hadn't yet. The first time he had seen her, he knew then that he would never forget.

Just as well, because as of the moment, it's all he has. He clings to it as a man would a piece of driftwood as he is tossed at sea, in the middle of a storm.

He has walked quite a distance before he musters the courage to look back, half-hoping, half-dreading seeing her figure standing by her front porch, calling him. But he could barely make out anything, the weeping night sky successfully obliterating any shadow of her that he had hoped to glimpse.

And so he turns once more to face the empty road before him, and risks a small, strangled sob and a swipe of his arm across his eyes to wipe away the water and the tears. But the rain rapidly flows onto his face once more, and he walks on, finally embracing the desperate, drowning feeling of the water washing away everything, every lingering scent of her - but never, ever her memory.

When she wakes up at dawn, she wonders at the water-stained pavement, not quite remembering the rain, not quite remembering that the sky had at least looked cloudy the night before.


	2. Chapter 1: Strange and Beautiful

**A/N:** The story will be written in two narrative strands - that is, two timelines juxtaposed, representing the two phases of Draco's relationship. These timelines will alternate in chapters. You'll know based on the verb tense in which it's written. Past is past and present is, well, present. And then it will meet and taper off at the end. For now, enjoy! :)

Also, for the astute, this one is inspired by Aqualung's "Strange and Beautiful." (Prologue was inspired by Ed Sheeran's "Make it Rain." ;)

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing. No Copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Everything was a blur of silver and green – from the silks hanging artfully from the ceiling to the bridesmaid's dresses and the men's ties; from the floral arrangements to the huge, glittering chandeliers above their heads. It was a mercy that the wedding coordinator Daphne hired had good taste, as the bride and groom's chosen wedding motif could have easily looked tacky in less capable hands. But as it was, the Zabini Manor's ballroom looked spectacular, discounting the color scheme.

Astoria clucked her tongue as she surveyed the ballroom. _How cliché_ , she thought, partly regretting that she hadn't been able to put forth any suggestions for her sister's wedding décor. Not that Daphne would have been too keen on taking her suggestions. Not that Astoria herself would have been keen on giving them. In fact, she wasn't enthusiastic about the wedding at all, because for one, it meant being back home, under her mother's hawk eyes.

She felt the same eyes boring into the side of her head, and she stiffened, pretending not to notice what her mother was attempting to wordlessly communicate - socialize, flirt, and dance. Fairly standard behaviour for well-born single girls in Pure-blood circles, she knew, but then again, she was never into standards. She has been against them ever since she became aware Daphne was one. It had always been "Daphne this, Daphne that," and Astoria, sick of the comparison, decided she won't ever be her elder sister's shadow. She had, among other things, asked the Sorting Hat to place her in Ravenclaw, permanently dyed her hair a rich dark brown in contrast to Daphne's blonde, and later left Hogwarts for Beauxbatons when Snape took over as Headmaster. Daphne had stayed, and while she had certainly felt worried for her family back then, in retrospect she was thankful that she was able to live a much more liberating life all by herself in France. After she graduated she kept on finding excuses to stay, finding residence and employment and perhaps even raison d'etre in Paris and sometimes in the beaches of Corsica, and very much dreading the day she would be asked to give up her new-found freedom for the old strictures of her British home.

As she observed her sister going around the tables and greeting the guests, it occurred to her that this marriage to a respectable, wealthy, and Pure-blooded wizard was a whole new standard she will no doubt be expected to meet. She risked a glance towards Lady Greengrass, who was occupying one end of the presidential table. The latter raised an eyebrow at her, validating her suspicions. She supressed a swearword with a sip of champagne and looked away, studiously turning her attention to Daphne's guests. They were mostly a Slytherin crowd, and she barely knew them, but she could recognize some faces despite not having seen them for almost six years.

It felt strange, looking at them after all those years had gone by. The last time she had seen them, after all, was when they were all bungling adolescents. They weren't really an old bunch; in fact, they were all in their early twenties, but it was curious to see how the span of a handful of years had left some people changed, and some, exactly the same. Daphne herself had shrieked herself silly the first time she saw Astoria, who hadn't gone home for Christmas for the past three years – but Astoria knew she hadn't changed much, just became a little less skinny and somewhat more tanned and hopefully a bit more poised. Daphne, though, had grown lovely, looking so much like their mother, tall and willowy, with all the curves in the right places and a face that could obviously please the pickiest of men, Blaise Zabini. Zabini, on the other hand, hadn't changed: he stood the same way and talked the same way, and if it wasn't a happy occasion Astoria was almost sure he'd scoff the same way. He looked almost the same, as far as she could recall - although the gruffness of the beginnings of a beard on his face was quite becoming on his Italian features. He most likely knew it was, Astoria thought wryly, as the man was probably vainer than his new wife. Then there was Theodore Nott, who has grown even taller over the years. He'd lost the reedy, rabitty look but not the smart glint in his eyes. He was altogether too sombre for a wedding guest, if not for the bored look on his face, and his quiet mannerisms contrasted with the witch sitting a few seats from him. It was unmistakeably Pansy Parkinson, talking loudly and giggling animatedly with Daphne. Her face still looked like a pug's, which was an unfortunate match for her pretty hair – a stylish black bob that would have looked stunning on a comelier face. Astoria derived a certain sense of twisted satisfaction that Pansy had never grown pretty. After all, the latter never lost a moment to lament how much of a black sheep Daphne's little sister was.

That was when she caught sight of him, sitting all alone in a table for eight, away from Pansy and Theo and his other former classmates. She wondered at that. True enough, he had been involved in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, but his family name had been legally cleared later on, with no less than Harry Potter himself testifying on his behalf, from what she'd heard. She supposed he was of standing enough to be one of Daphne's wedding guests, so why was he sitting there, all alone? Why wasn't Pansy the Pug fawning all over him? She looked more closely, discretely sitting straighter and craning her neck to get a better view. He'd grown taller, she observed, and his blond hair had grown just a bit longer. He bore an elegance that rivalled Zabini's and a reserve that definitely trumped Nott's, his pale, pointy face a mask of aloofness and his grey eyes distant and cold. It was a handsome face, for sure, but she'd always known that, even back then when he was a slimy little git and she'd have been far more reluctant to admit such an observation. His face hadn't changed much, and his build was essentially the same. But for some reason she couldn't yet pinpoint, it was Draco Malfoy who was the most altered of them all.

As though sensing that she had been eyeing him, his head turned, locking eyes with her curious gaze. She wondered if he recognized her. They've never really interacted before, not beyond formal "hello's," and "how do you do's" at Pure-blood gatherings. A touch of defiance crossed his features, as though daring Astoria to pass him judgment. Unperturbed and now very much intrigued, she raised her champagne glass to him in salute, an eyebrow slightly raised, and a hint of a smile playing in her lips. That startled him, and then he dropped her gaze and looked away.

A throat cleared somewhere near her. She turned to see her mother glaring at her.

"What?" she asked innocently, knowing perfectly well that her mother had seen her and had not approved.

Her mother's mouth twitched. "Care to dance with our guests, _darling?_ You've been sitting on that chair all evening." There was a dangerous edge to her voice that Astoria knew all too well.

"Certainly, Mother," she said docilely, seizing the opportunity to be free from her mother's glares. She took her newly-replenished champagne flute and departed, feeling relieved. A few paces away, she saw Sullivan Fawley approach her, looking determined. She smiled sweetly at him as he opened his mouth – probably to ask for a dance – then took a detour, cursing under her breath, heading instead for the solitude of the balconies.

Only, it was already occupied. Draco Malfoy was there, with his back turned to the world. For the second time that night Astoria wondered why he even bothered attending the party. He seemed to have heard her footsteps because he turned. She smiled at him, a warm, confident smile, as she put her champagne flute on the ledge.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked as she leaned on the ledge beside him.

Draco raised his eyebrows. "And if I do?"

"Then that would be a pity," she replied, not moving from her spot.

"Would it?"

She nodded. "We'd both be missing out on some sensible company, if you made me leave. Besides, you're far too much of a gentleman to make me, so you probably would, instead."

He snorted delicately. "You don't know that."

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but I do know you don't really care for company tonight and you're stuck at this goddamn wedding and Merlin knows why. You're also probably annoyed at this pesky little smartmouth who suddenly imposes her company on you when you've been faring so well at being cold-shouldered by your former friends, and you've been contemplating on Apparating back home the moment they started serving hors d'oeuvres."

He stared at her for a moment, his expressionless façade beginning to crack. "What do you want?" he asked, sounding unnerved.

Astoria paused. "Same thing that you want," she finally replied, knowing it to be true. "Solitude."

And so they were quiet for some time, drinking and contemplating at the night sky. Two more people came up behind her and asked her to dance. She said no to both. It hadn't escaped her that the two were both Slytherins and pretended outright that her companion did not exist.

"Some friends you have," she remarked after the second one left. Draco said nothing, giving no indication that he'd heard.

The orchestra struck a new tune, a slow, simple waltz that was both hypnotic and melancholic. She turned to Draco. "Dance with me." She wasn't sure what made her say it, and was fairly certain it wasn't a good idea. In her mother's book, former Death Eaters were now of the same status as Muggle-borns. Not that she gave a damn.

Draco looked at her as though she were mad.

"Dance with me," she repeated, unsmiling, making it perfectly clear that she wasn't fooling around. She put down her champagne and clasped his free hand.

It was probably the feel of her hand in his, because Draco, despite the obvious bewilderment in his eyes, put down his whiskey glass and allowed her to lead the way to the dance floor.

"You're not going to let me lead, are you?" she teased him, suddenly feeling shy at her boldness.

"Of course, not," he said, his manners and his grooming kicking in. He held her into position, carefully at first, like he was holding a fragile, porcelain doll. She understood the hesitation; she was, after all, wearing a dress cut quite low at the back. And then they began to dance, and Astoria melted into him, letting him hold her a little closer, the bare skin of her back tingling under the warmth of his hand. His grip on her other hand tightened, communicating things that he would never convey with words. His grey eyes filled her vision, full of questions and riddles and secrets and something else – a profound sadness, a desperate hunger she could not unsee; a combination of intensity and fragility that held all of her attention. She felt almost weightless, barely aware of the marble floor or the lithe, practised movements of their feet. As though she was in a trance.

It had barely registered that the dance was over. She looked up at him, his hand still on her back, her and still on his shoulder. "Thank you," she managed to say. "That was… something."

He let go of her slowly, almost reluctantly, his face re-morphing into that distant, unfeeling mask. And then wordlessly, he turned his back.

"Draco," she called, the first time she used his given name. He paused to face her again, a question in his eyes.

"They call me Tory," she said, realizing she hadn't even properly introduced herself. She held out a hand, which he took, but did not shake. He hesitated for a bit, and then he raised it up to his lips.

"I'll call you Astoria," he said, giving her hand back. She watched as his retreating figure disappeared into the crowd, leaving her pondering on the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.


	3. Chapter 2: And So It Is

**A/N:** This came off a lot more introspective than I originally intended. There's not a lot of dialogue, but then there's not a lot of people willing to talk to someone like Draco, I figured. It's really awkward for them socially, I guess. A lot of thinking in here, though, and as much as we all love the confident, sneering, drawling git that was Draco, we have to figure in what he's been through, right? I've so many more notes I want to share with you but I can't because that'll spoil the fun of reading between the lines. So please enjoy, and do leave a review! :)

Btw, chapter's inspired by Damien Rice's "The Blower's Daughter," which broke my heart when I first heard it.

Also, I'm not sure how updating a chapter works but if you've already read an uploaded chapter and an email notifies you that I've updated the same, that just means I've found a couple of typo errors, and I'm editing for the benefit of future readers. You don't really have to read it all over again.

 **DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Harry Potter, sadly.

* * *

He steps into the Ministry Atrium with growing trepidation. Today is the sixth anniversary celebrating the end of the Second Wizarding War, and he doesn't want to be part of it. He thinks it's hypocritical to be attending a celebration of the end of something he in the first place helped bring about, regardless of how willing he was at the time. But his mother is always adamant that at least one Malfoy make an appearance in these functions, lest they send the wrong message to the Wizarding community. Unfortunately for Draco, the task of making such an appearance always seems to befall him. He understands the importance of making an appearance, but he knows his mother well enough to see beneath her reasoning. She just wants to make sure he doesn't isolate himself again - not that isolation had ever been his first choice. But she's always afraid now, especially after another breakdown last year, that he will spiral back into that depression he had experienced right after the war ended, when almost every night had been punctuated by screaming nightmares, every morning felt emptier than the last, and every other day he'd felt the need to bite someone's head off and scream himself hoarse in a temper. He's almost sure there's no going back to such a state, but Narcissa is completely convinced otherwise, and putting on a face seems a small price to pay to allay his mother's worrying.

He sighs as he readjusts his tie and smoothens his already well-pressed robes. It feels strange, he thinks, to have distanced himself from everything, and then to come back and watch the world with fresh eyes. He has only been away for a year, but somehow the distance has given him some sort of renewed grip on himself, for which, right now, he is very grateful. Still, he deliberately keeps to a corner to be safe from accusing eyes (he's gotten used to the glares by now) and unwanted conversation (not that people fell in line to talk to him), and to observe, as has been his habit for the past few years.

The Ministry has outdone itself this time. He barely recognizes the Atrium. Below the peacock-blue ceiling floated hundreds of glittering orbs that bathed the hall in a soft, silver glow, casting eerily beautiful shadows that flickered and shifted the way gentle breeze rustles leaves. Somewhere he can hear a couple of harps playing, curiously enough, not a festive tune but a rather contemplative melody. Scattered throughout the hall are cocktail tables on which guests converged, but the most remarkable feature of the entire set up are the picture frames floating about the room, each very slowly rotating on its spot for all guests to see. The frames, he notices, hold pictures on both sides. He approaches one, and the frame stops rotating, as though sensing his presence and bidding him to look more, to look beyond.

The painting seems to depict rubble, with dabs of grey of different shades and flecks of gold here and there. For a moment he thinks that the artist has painted the Muggle way. But his eyes catch sight of how the paint very subtly shifts colours and strokes, and he realizes that the rubble is still smoking from whatever it was that had caused the destruction. The painting is alive, at least within the four walls of its frame. He takes another look at the entire canvas before he sees the rubble for what it really is - the Fountain of Magical Brethren, lying in ruins. Unsettled, he turns around and walks away, moving on to the next painting, a field of green, reminiscent of a sunlit patch of Hogwarts grounds. He looks again, this time noticing the dark, rough edges of the canvas, and realizes he is looking through a broken window pane, a frame within the frame.

 _Some exhibit,_ he thinks, disturbed. As he walks away, a shaft of golden light directs itself to a raised podium, and a visibly older Kingsley Shacklebolt climbs up. Draco prepares to tune out the Minister's speech, but some part of him wants to listen, especially for an explanation as to the unusual atmosphere in the Atrium.

"Welcome," the Minister begins solemnly, his deep, assuring voice magically amplified. "Today marks another year of peace for all of us. For five years we have marked this day with joy and celebration, and rightly so, because today we have regained our liberty." The audience fills the pause with applause, and the Minister nods at someone in the audience, presumably Potter and his mates. Draco doesn't bother craning his neck to look.

"But," Shacklebolt continues, "today is another year, and as our battle wounds turn into barely discernible scars, we present to you the enormous challenge yet at hand. We invite you to once again stare in the eye not only that which we have gained, but also that which we have lost, for only then can we fully comprehend what we still have to work for, what we still have to obtain -," the Minister pauses to the murmurs that have broken out among his audience, " _genuine healing._ "

Draco stares in surprise, wondering, not for the first time, if their new Minister of Magic was a touch insane. Having Lucius Malfoy as a father has imparted in him a general disdain towards politicians, but Kingsley Shacklebolt he has reluctantly regarded with grudging respect. No other Minister would have had the nerve to present his constituents with such a controversial and sensitive theme, as much as no other Minister would have had the guts to kick the dementors out of Azkaban. At the very back of his mind he knows, too, that probably no other Minister would have looked at his family name and the tattoo on his and his father's arms and pardoned them for their crimes.

Cameras flash and quills race to catch every word as the Minister goes on, and the applause that comes at the end of his speech is accented by more murmurs, but Draco has already tuned out, feeling more unsettled than ever, a sick feeling bubbling slowly in his stomach. He doesn't want to be here. _Not with these bloody paintings floating around_ , he reasons. He knows it's only a matter of time before he hears someone jibe about how thick the Malfoys are being, and while he's learned to let such jibes slide, the paintings did make good visual aids, and he's never had to deal with so many visuals before. He's deliberating on how best to leave the scene unnoticed when his peripheral vision catches the silhouette of a figure he knows better than his own.

He feels his heart literally stop for a moment and he blinks, unsure of what he just saw. He hardly dares to believe it was her, but his heels act out what his mind doesn't want to do and he walks until he's standing behind her, a good few paces away, but so much closer than he's ever dreamed of in the past year. It's not an apparition, he thinks stupidly for a moment. He's forgotten about the accursed paintings, and suddenly she's the only real person in a room full of strangers.

She's just as he remembers: the way her lush, dark waves sweep up in a loose knot on her head, exposing the curve of her nape; the precise curves and edges of her slim form, the exact shade of skin on her bare shoulders. He sees a sliver of her face when she tilts her head, all her attention on the painting before her, and at that moment Draco wants nothing more than to see her face.

"Astoria," he manages to croak before he can think twice, and she turns, her bright eyes meeting his. It happens in the space of a heartbeat, but stretches on and on. He can see in her eyes both the surprise and the struggle to understand. It seemed too much, and she staggers off balance. His reflexes kick in and he catches her by the elbow.

That she is here and real in his arms renders him speechless for a moment, his mind in a whirlwind. "Are you alright?" he asks, not without effort.

"I'm sorry," she says as she recovers, "I lost my balance and I –" she shakes her head a little, as though trying to rid herself of some thought. "Anyway, thank you," she smiles, but he can tell she's still unnerved.

"Draco Malfoy?"

His head snaps up to the direction of the newcomer so fast he could have cricked his neck.

"I didn't know you and Tory were friends," the newcomer continues, sounding unnecessarily cautious and just a little bit curious.

Astoria raises her eyebrows at the stranger. "Draco just happened to be there when I clumsily stumbled on my heels, mercifully," she tells him lightly, which of course isn't entirely true. "He's an old friend of Daphne's," she continues with another half-truth, "and we've only ever met a handful of times, when we were younger. Slytherin crowd and all that." _That, though, is a complete lie._ Her words are a piercing dagger to his chest. He reminds himself that she remembers nothing.

"You wanted to say something?" she turns to Draco.

"Sorry?"

"When you approached and I –"

"Oh. Yes. Right." He mentally kicks himself for sounding like an utter moron. He clears his throat discreetly. Recovering, he drawls nonchalantly, "I remembered Daphne when I saw you and thought I'd say hello." He needs to make his exit, fast. "Well, give my regards to your sister and Blaise," he says curtly. "If you'll excuse me," he nodded, "Astoria, and –"

"Edward Macmillan," he smiles tightly, holding out a hand which Draco forces himself to shake, "Tory's boyfriend."

It takes all of Draco's willpower not to let loose his fist and punch the bastard in the face. "Pleasure meeting you." He spits out the words, bile burning in his throat. He lets go of the hand and walks towards the table of refreshments.

They only had champagne. _So many bloody disturbing paintings, but only champagne._ He takes one glass, thinking that if they only had butterbeer, he'd take that, too.

 _Merlin_ , he thinks with gritted teeth, _I'm supposed to be over it._ He inwardly curses himself for being stupid enough to even approach her. He should have happily stayed holed up in Bulgaria until he died, probably, or until he… until he fell in love with someone else, he thinks disgustedly. _I wasn't even in love with her,_ he corrects himself. _I just_ cared _about Astoria Greengrass_. It pains him to admit dying seems so much more an appealing prospect.

But he approached her anyway. She had caught him off-guard, which was typical of her, always getting to him when he least expects it. And now she had caught him off-guard even when she barely knew he existed.

One year. One-year since he had abandoned her on her bed sleeping, abandoned her knowing that when she woke up that morning, she would look at him with a detached curiosity that she reserved for people she had yet to know. That detached curiosity he had sampled just now. For one whole year he had been carefully building his defenses. He practically threw himself to work and buried himself there, tried to keep distracted. It was a necessity, because he knew deep down that no matter how much he avoided, he would meet her again at some point. He was a proud man, if nothing, and he didn't want to end up grovelling at her to take him back, especially not after what he'd done. He had thought that he was doing fairly well, coping. He derived some twisted sense of accomplishment for the normalcy which he was able to recreate, and prided himself for not pining or acting like a kicked puppy. And he had reason to feel accomplished, because the first month had nearly driven him mad. He saw her in everything; he remembered her in everything. He dreamed of her every night, which made him depressed throughout the day. He barely ate and alternated between catatonic, unbearably temperamental, and just plain dejected - so much so that his father couldn't stand it and had sent him to Bulgaria on family business. It had done him good to be away, and after a while he started believing he was over it. He resolved to be over the idiocy of having broken his own heart.

Seeing her again today has jolted him to his senses. There is no escaping her. It had taken only one glimpse of her face to have his year-long resolve crumble down into nothing. He really was a fool. A pathetic one at that.

He sneaks another glance at Astoria, and suddenly wishes he hadn't. He just caught sight of Macmillan swooping down to kiss _his_ girlfriend. _Ex-girlfriend._ And then for some reason, she looks straight ahead and catches him staring at them. A strange look crosses her features, and she turns back to Macmillan as though she saw nothing.

The champagne glass he's holding shatters. "Fuck," he says aloud, not so much as to the shattered glass.

Some masochistic part of himself thinks, _really, that's exactly what you left her to do, isn't it? Find someone else? Live her life?_ But the bitter side of him is more familiar, more comfortable, than the admonishing wise-arse in his head, and it's easier for him to focus on the aspect of a third party, rather than the fact that the situation is precisely his own engineering.

 _What does she see in him, anyway? Smarmy, puffed-up, miserable wanker…_

But he, of course, knows the answer. _Definitely nothing tattooed on his left forearm._ For what seems like the first time, he seriously considers the question he's been avoiding ever since he was sixteen. _Did it really make me a monster?_

* * *

When he gets home that night, he goes straight for the gilded silver mirror in his bedchamber. He stares at the man before him, pale face looking back at him in bitterness and disgust. He drops his gaze to his exposed left forearm, and despite the dimness of the room, he sees the faded lines of the mark so clearly he feels it burn. His right hand almost automatically jumps at it, his fingers digging deep against his skin, attempting to claw out what he knows will never really come off.


	4. Chapter 3: In the Dark

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Harry Potter.

 **A/N:** Thank you for the guest/guests who've been leaving me reviews. I really appreciate the time you took to give me your feedback. :)

* * *

Muggle drinks, it seemed to Astoria, had insufferably long names. Even the ones at the upscale-looking bar she managed to end up in. She took another swig of the drink in her glass, the name of which she'd already forgotten, feeling her throat burn. _Too much alcohol in this one,_ she thought ruefully. But it was the man beside her who'd bought it for her, which was just as well since she'd completely forgotten about Muggle money. After a couple of hours, she could neither recall how much she'd had to drink.

The man _– was it Nicky? Ricky? –_ had somehow managed to inch too close for comfort, despite the bar stools being fixed on the marble floor. When he talked, she could smell whiskey and tobacco from his hot breath, and his beard tickled against her ear.

"You're a vision, you know that?" he whispered.

Astoria angled her head away as she snorted, feeling light-headed and rather woozy. "I've been told," she tried to say coolly, but she could hear the giddiness and the slight slur in her voice that gave her a relatively good estimate of how much alcohol she'd ingested.

"S'matter, lovely? Hasn't your boyfriend ever grown a beard?" She felt an arm go round her waist, the man's hand resting comfortably at the curve.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she deadpanned, her response automatic. She was tipsy, but not _that_ tipsy. She shifted uncomfortably as she felt the man's hand rising dangerously close to her breast. "And I'd appreciate it if you _–_ "

But the man never heard what she'd appreciate, because suddenly he was on the floor of the dimly lit bar.

" _Bloody –_ 'the fuck was that for?" he demanded, picking himself up with as much dignity as an intoxicated person could muster.

" _I_ would appreciate it if you get your filthy hands off my girlfriend," Draco Malfoy drawled, calmly taking the seat from which he had bodily shoved him. His almost pleasant tone was belied by the threatening look on his face. The man glared at him for a few seconds before turning away, muttering a stream of death threats and swearwords as he went.

Astoria raised an eyebrow at Draco. "And I just told him I didn't have a boyfriend."

Draco considered her for a moment, his normally stoic features displaying the slightest hint of annoyance. "You're actually amused? Or are you too pissed to notice he was taking advantage?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I could have taken care of myself, you know." She never liked white knights. "I'm not ten," she said, not noticing how she sounded like one. "But thanks, anyway."

Draco Malfoy shrugged and took a sip of his drink. Astoria turned to hers, only to realize that it was her glass Draco was holding.

"That's mine," she pointed out, trying and failing not to sound petulant.

"You've had enough," he replied, draining the rest of the contents of the glass before setting it down.

"Yeah, and you're very much the paragon of good _–_ wait a minute," she stared at him, eyes widening in wonder. "It _is_ you, isn't it?" she reached out a hand to touch his face, oblivious to the fact that he froze under her touch.

"What in the blazes are you on about, Greengrass?"

"What happened to you calling me Astoria?" she asked him, brushing at the shoulder of his immaculate Muggle suit before pulling her hand away. "I'm not sure if I'm really just too pissed, as you so eloquently if not elegantly put it, but I'm assuming you didn't find this place by accident, at least not tonight? And this is actually, really Draco Malfoy in a Muggle bar?"

His eyes narrowed. "You don't know me, Greengrass," he reminded her, a warning in his voice.

"Fair point," she conceded, biting back a thousand questions at the tip of her tongue.

"Besides, I could ask you the same thing."

She looked up at him curiously. In the dimness, his grey eyes shone like moonstones. "If I answer, would you do the same?"

"No."

Astoria sighed. "I just love how open you are," she told him, tone dripping with sarcasm. She cupped her cheek with one hand, propping her head up with her elbow on the table.

"I got kicked out of the house."

"What?"

"Okay, no, not kicked out. I _walked out_ , technically," she amended dryly. "Merlin, I need another drink," she said, summoning the bartender. "But you'll have to pay," she told Draco. He shrugged again.

Draco Malfoy, Astoria later that night discovered, was a very good listener. She suspected he wasn't, in his younger years, but when she told her story he gave her his full attention. If she hadn't been quite tipsy she probably would have felt uncomfortable at the intensity at which he focused.

"So, when I didn't show up that night for dinner, my mother was naturally furious, because I put her name on the line -"

"How about your father?" he interrupted.

"My father?"

"Fathers are usually more protective of their daughters than their sons, I've noticed." There was the merest trace of bitterness to his statement that she almost missed, but didn't. To Astoria, it sounded very much like an explanation to more than his question.

"Quite," she agreed, choosing not to voice out a new inference in her head, "and I always thought I was my father's favourite," she smiled fondly. "But he died, you know… just as the war broke out. Nothing war-related; he was very ill. So… so it's quite understandable that you - that a lot of people have missed the fact."

Draco suddenly looked as though he wished he didn't bring the topic up.

"Anyway," she said a little more animatedly, covering for the awkward pause. "My mother's a very traditional witch. Sometimes I think she should have been born in the eighteenth century. She was furious when I didn't show up after she's gone all the way to arrange this dinner with what's-his-face because - well, because of a lot of things, I suspect, but chiefly because of pride and because I was being an obstinate bitch. She's never had to deal with Daphne that way, you see," she paused, taking another sip of her drink.

"She was furious, but I was livid. I'm not really in the habit of yelling at people. I usually have a very calm disposition _–_ "

"I noticed."

" _–_ but I think my voice rose with my temper a couple of times when we rowed. I _–_ you noticed?"

"I'm very observant. So you rowed?" he prompted.

"We did. She was actually angry because she had to reschedule the stupid date, and all the while I was thinking, why do old people love going about plotting their children's lives for them? It's not like they're the ones who'll be suffering the consequences. It's downright stupid and pathetic. _Honestly_ ," she drank some more, not registering that Draco shifted a little bit closer, his interest having been piqued.

"It was probably the first time in years when I thought of how I really, really, fucking _loathe_ being born into this Pure-blood shite. Merlin. But no, I get born into the illustrious Greengrass clan _–_ it's not even a pretty surname, mind _–_ and so I have to dress like so and act like so and then make friends with so and so and apparently fucking _marry_ like _–_ " she caught Draco looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

"I'm babbling, aren't I? I've had too much to drink," she said apologetically.

He shook his head, and then she noticed a crease on his forehead. But he prompted her again to continue, so she did.

"Well, I was so furious that I told her I'd marry a Muggle if I wanted to."

"Would you?"

She raised her chin. "Yes, Draco, I would." she said defiantly, and then sighed. "If I fell in love, anyway. Although _–_ and this has nothing to do with prejudice _–_ that might be a little too extreme. Too many things to adjust to, you know? It's not the most practical arrangement. But I probably won't mind marrying a Muggle-born."

"Neither would I." He said it so quietly that Astoria wasn't sure she heard him right. She looked at him, working very hard to keep her face expressionless. The last thing she wanted was to look like the opinionated Ravenclaw that she was.

"Probably," he added, and she smirked.

"But not likely?"

He ignored her question. "Go on," he pressed.

"Where was I? Ah, yes, so I said that and she got as livid as I was. She threatened to disinherit me, so I dared her to get on with it, _et voila_ , here I am," she finished.

She drained the remainder of her glass, and suddenly wish she hadn't. She was dizzy. "I think I'll call it a night," she said, sliding down from her seat rather ungracefully. She slipped and staggered forward, but Draco had stood quickly and caught her by the arm before she fell.

Astoria straightened up, finding her face just a little more than two inches away from his. She felt her pulse racing, her heart pounding in her ears. Draco stood rooted to the spot, his eyes boring into hers. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss him, and it was such a strong and unreasonable urge that she literally had to pull her head down to a bow to stop herself.

"Are you alright?" he asked, sounding nonplussed.

"I'm fine _–_ just a bit dizzy," she admitted. She stepped backward, and he hesitantly let go of her arm. She felt herself sway, and instinctively clutched at Draco's shoulder.

"I'll take you home."

She gave him a dark look. "Did I not just spend the past hour ranting about home? I'm about to be disinherited, remember? Don't bother, honestly. I'll find a hotel. Something."

Draco shook his head. "You can't even walk straight. You'll likely splinch yourself if you Apparate. I'll take you to my house; you can sleep that off in a guestroom."

She bit her lip and folded her arms across her chest. "I don't want to be a burden."

He ignored her statement and held out a hand. "Take it," he said. And then she did.

It was the strangled screaming that woke her - a resounding cry against the stillness of the night, tearing through the velvet blanket of slumber and jolting her to consciousness. In dazed panic, she fumbled for her wand and disentangled herself hastily from the bed sheets. She could barely make out a thing in the darkness, nearly tripping on a nearby footstool. She stumbled a bit, and muttered, " _Lumos._ "

The screaming stopped abruptly. In its place was the laboured panting of Draco Malfoy, who was now sitting upright on the couch across the bed, the couch where he had been sleeping - and screaming, just a few moments before. He sat staring at his own hands, pale-faced and sweating, the dark circles under his eyes making him look sickly in the wandlight.

But it wasn't his pallor that had rendered Astoria momentarily speechless. It was his expression. If he had looked scared, Astoria might have even laughed and chided him to chase the darkness away. But he looked positively revolted, like what he had seen in his nightmare was about to make him sick. Astoria stared, her own eyes wide. Then she saw his upright stance waver, his upper body sway, and Astoria, unthinking, practically ran to catch him before he collapsed.

He did not collapse - that is, he did not lose consciousness. Because the moment she had wrapped her arms around him he seemed to let go of whatever it was that was holding him together and started sobbing into her hair. She felt the warm tears trickle down her shoulders, but she wasn't sure what was more real - the warmth on her shoulders or the warmth in her chest, an unfamiliar tug at her heart that had a lump dangerously rising up her throat. Not trusting herself to say anything without her voice breaking, she rubbed circles on his back using the palm of her hand.

In the handful of times that she had met him, she had known him to be cocky, unpleasant and obnoxious, and recently, distant, unfeeling, cold. Now, with him crying in her arms, she wasn't sure which she preferred.

After a while, he grew silent, straightening up, and wiping his tears. "I'm sorry you had to witness that," he said hoarsely, not meeting her eyes.

"Don't worry about it," she said softly, folding her hands across her lap. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"It's embarrassing enough as it is. Go back to sleep," he nodded towards the bed. His voice still quivered.

"And hog your own bed while you sleep on the couch? No need to play gentleman, Draco." She offered him a small smile. "You need the rest more than I do - especially if that couch was so uncomfortable it was giving you nightmares."

"I don't think I can go back to sleep anyway."

"Then I'll sleep when you do," she said, picking up her wand again and extinguishing the light. He didn't argue. She suspected it was because he didn't have the strength, although it occurred to her that he was also grateful for the company, for once. That he had deposited her on his own bed than in a guestroom while he slept on a nearby couch confirmed more or less reinforced her theory. His bedroom was huge, and while in daylight it probably looked opulent, in the darkness it was cavernous _–_ and very empty. She sat beside him on the couch, hugging her knees, listening to the silence.

"He died today," he whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear. She didn't know what Draco meant, only that it pained him, and it pained him to say it.

"I'm sorry," she replied, and she was. She took his hand and held it, and they were quiet again.

When morning light finally filtered through the Malfoy Manor's many French windows, Astoria and Draco were finally, peacefully asleep, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat on the couch, both oblivious and uncaring that the horrors of the night had already passed.

Astoria, however, woke up at noon only to find herself alone, lying on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. A small vial of what looked like a potion for hangovers stood on the bedside table, doubling as a paper weight to a note written in a neat, unfamiliar scrawl. It read:

 _Astoria,_

 _I owe you an apology for not being there when you wake. I've very urgent business to attend to and can't see you off. I hope you don't mind. I'll see you around._

 _Draco_

She folded the piece of parchment, feeling that she ought to be at least annoyed, but wasn't. She was perfectly certain that it wasn't business he had to attend to that morning, but the fact that he showed himself vulnerable to a virtual stranger the night before.


	5. Chapter 4: The Prelude

**A/N:** So very sorry uploading this took me forever. I actually had to cut off what I've written for this chapter because it turned out to be too long. On the plus side, at least the next, next chapter's already partially written :D As the chapter title implies, the story is about to pick up pace, and I'm just setting things up here.

Another thing that took long wasn't really the writing but the research it entailed. I sort of got carried away reading about heraldry and the traditional interiors of a great house. The Malfoy crest mentioned here does exist, though I'm not sure if the filmmakers just made it up or it's canon (i.e. they asked Jo and she gave the description). I was so tempted to invent the crest myself because frankly, in terms of heraldry symbols, the fox is probably the best representation of the Malfoys' cunning and knack for self-preservation. But then I decided to just stick with the amphipteres (winged serpents) when I read somewhere that they could also symbolize "protection of the family name." Their motto translates to"Purity Always Conquers."

Draco's fascination for alchemical manuscripts is also canon, by the way, and that unusual fascination was what pushed me to write a little more maturity into Draco, and maybe, after everything he's been through, just a little more depth. But I don't think he'll ever get the hang of being perfectly pleasant.

* * *

 _Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

 _In response to your inquiry, we confirm to you that a representative from the Ministry of Magic Committee on Research shall arrive at the Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, at exactly 9:00 in the morning today, seventeenth of July, 2004. We trust he shall orient you further as to the nature of the research we have requested to be conducted with the aid of your vast collection of magical manuscripts._

 _Thank you for your generosity and your continued support of the Ministry._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Amanda Savage_

 _Head, Auror Office_

 _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

 _Ministry of Magic_

He has read the note a good number of times now, but he still isn't quite sure what to make of it. He wonders what the Ministry is really playing at, with the Auror Office sending in a "Ministry researcher" into their house. His father was furious when he first received a letter from the Ministry practically requesting to conduct a "research" in their family library, seeing through the ruse. It's obviously a move to dig more dirt, as if the Malfoy name isn't dirty enough as it is, these days. Precisely because they are in a socially precarious position, however, they don't have much of a choice in the matter.

And typically of his father, he's left him to deal with the situation at hand.

The clock in the drawing room chimes nine, and Draco folds the parchment and pockets it. There's a soft _whoosh_ in the mantelpiece as the flames turn green, and the Ministry representative clambers out of the fire.

 _Fucking hell._ All the preparation he and his parents talked about last night just about flies out the window when he sees her.

"Good morning," Astoria Greengrass smiles, brushing off ash from her dark robes.

"You're the Ministry…?"

"Representative?" she asks, and then holds out a hand. "Astoria Greengrass from the Committee on Research."

Draco shakes her hand. "I thought they were sending a bloke," he mutters, trying not to sound flabbergasted.

Astoria raises an eyebrow at his remark. "Please, don't look so cheerful that I'm here; it's hardly appropriate," she says in a saccharine voice.

He rolls his eyes at her. Sometimes he thinks Astoria is the sweetest when she's being sarcastic. He runs a hand through his hair, ignoring her jibe. He isn't ready to deal with a snarky ex-girlfriend at nine in the morning.

"Have a seat," he says a little more curtly than he intended.

"You seem agitated," she notes lightly, the same way one makes a comment about the weather.

He takes the seat opposite hers. "Yeah, well, it was supposed to be my father dealing with your Ministry lot today," he drawls, drowning out any sign of agitation Astoria has noticed.

"I was actually preparing to meet with Lucius Malfoy," she agrees. "But…" she cocks her head to the side, "I'm not complaining…" she trails off, the ghost of a playful smirk on her lips.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demands grumpily. _She's not flirting with you, you dolt. Get a fucking grip._

She just gives him an enigmatic smile. Draco holds back an exasperated sigh.

"So why're you here again?" He knows he's borderline rude, and wonders if she'll leave. It's a very good tactic for driving away unwanted company. His mother wouldn't approve, of course, mainly because it has the trade-off of making him look like a complete arsehole, but he couldn't remember the last time people have regarded him as anything but. Right now he couldn't care less.

But this is Astoria Greengrass, and some twisted part of him is relieved to see her roll her eyes and straighten up instead, squaring her shoulders as if readying herself for a duel.

"I'm here, as you know by now, _Mr. Malfoy_ , on Ministry business."

"Obviously."

"Should I talk or should I let you?"

He folds his arms together and huffs, looking dreadfully disdainful. Astoria looks at him amusedly but continues with her spiel.

"I'm normally assigned to the Wizengamot, as Chief of Legal Research, but as they're in recess and Brody – the researcher for the Auror Office - is currently incapacitated at St. Mungo's, I'm filling in for him. I was tasked to gather data on Dark artefacts from the Malfoy collection of manuscripts."

It's too simple, he thinks. He's probably missing something. "So… you're really here to use the library?"

"Well, technically speaking, whether you've stashed Dark artefacts in glass casings down your cellar is none of my concern." She peers at him knowingly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps, and her mouth twitches.

"But yes, essentially I'm here to use the library."

"Hogwarts has a far bigger library –"

"And we've gathered all we can from Hogwarts for the past few years. We're now looking into private collections, Mr. Malfoy – "

"Draco," he corrects.

"Draco." She pauses, and suddenly she is looking at him intently – the same struggling look he remembers back at the Ministry function.

"You were saying?" he prompts, uncomfortable with the loaded silence and even more uncomfortable with the searching look on her face.

"Draco," she says again, more to herself than to him. And then she shifts, regaining her former certainty. "We're now looking into private collections, ones with the rarer manuscripts that the Hogwarts library doesn't have. Like your family's collection."

"And there are no other family libraries who have books on the subject?"

For the first time that morning Astoria looks uncomfortable. "Most families who had them had their property sequestered by the Ministry as reparation for war crimes," she explains. "So they tried to get rid of as much incriminating material as they could before the Ministry got wind of them."

"Implying that the Ministry only checked on Death Eaters."

"We had to narrow the search. It's purely logistic."

"Of course it is."

She grimaces at his scathing reply.

"And I'm supposed to believe this Ministry research project isn't just to look up anything more incriminating about those who've avoided sequestration?"

She opens her mouth, looking visibly taken aback. And then she leans towards him, her steel-blue eyes drilling into his. "If it were," she says coolly, "I wouldn't have signed up for it."

He swallows, the question of "why not" dying in his throat.

"I'm just here to gather data - purely for policy-making purposes." She straightens up. "We're trying to come up with the best possible options for institutionalizing Dark artefacts regulation, and that spans from the possibility of creating a separate office for it, to incorporating it further into the Auror training program. Among others. It's a lot of work – which brings me to why I'm glad it's you in this drawing room and not your father."

"And that is?"

"I need help, Draco. It's a lot of work," she repeats, unknowingly delivering a blow to his ego.

"And you really think I'll help you?" he scoffs.

Seeing her that night at the Ministry, he thinks for the umpteenth time, has the unfortunate outcome of upsetting the delicate balance of his relatively peaceful existence. He's been getting by quite well, after all. He isn't sure if he could handle seeing her regularly for the next few weeks.

But right now, he's absolutely sure he wants to.

"Out of the goodness of your heart, yes," she says gravely.

"What on earth makes you think that?"

She looks up at him with a curious expression on her face. "I just have a feeling."

* * *

They walk into the library of the Malfoy Manor, a spacious, rectangular study bathed in generous light pouring from the enormous windows right behind an immense but handsomely built bureau. The rest of the wood-panelled walls are lined with books. On one side of the room, a break in the wall of books, was a fireplace, over which used to hang a portrait of him as a child. His father doesn't know he has long since disposed of the painting. In front of the fireplace was a set of comfortable lounge seats. On the other side is an alcove, the wall of which is completely covered by a tapestry bearing the Malfoy crest: a shield of black and green supported by an amphiptere on either side. The shield is emblazoned with an ornate silver "M," and a banner underneath bore the words _"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper."_

Astoria takes in the brightness of the room and smiles. "I love your library," she says.

"Not quite what you were expecting, is it?"

She walks toward one shelf, running a hand against the book spines. "No, but I wasn't expecting anything at all." She turns to him again. "I don't make it a habit to run around with preconceived notions of something – or someone – in my head. I know it's a dangerous way of living," she acknowledges when she sees the incredulity on his face, "and I'm not going to deny that I can be pretty opinionated. But I guess I've learned to reserve judgments until I've enough basis to make them. It never hurts to give things the chance to unravel before you, don't you think?"

He just stares at her for a moment, wondering how it is that she's exactly the same with him when everything else is different. When he was idiot enough to have made everything different. "I haven't really thought about it," he replies flatly.

She just nods. "So the books I came for?"

"In here." He leads her to the alcove that isn't actually an alcove but an entrance disguised as a wall. Draco sweeps the tapestry aside as one would a curtain, revealing a short and very narrow hallway, the walls of which were also lined with books. Astoria joins him, and suddenly he's aware that he's alone with this very woman in a dark, enclosed space that's just a little wider than a broom cupboard. He swallows, hard, his throat suddenly going dry.

" _Lumos,_ " she whispers, and her wandtip flares to life. She looks around, noting the lack of space between them.

"Very cosy," she remarks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"I'm aware," says Draco stonily.

Astoria just laughs, but when she speaks again, her tone is once more business-like. "Here's a list of the books I don't need anymore," she waves a piece of parchment at him. "I'm going to charm it so we can more easily procure just what we need, but that'll mean I'll be taking out all the books we'll be using all at the same time. Do you have any objections to that?"

He has none, so he simply watches as Astoria taps her wand and flicks her wrist into complicated loops. After a few seconds, books start sliding off the shelves.

"Quite the charmwork," he remarks, and she grins.

"It was my favourite subject."

The last book slides off the shelf, and Astoria turns to Draco. "Mind bringing them over to the table out there?"

"Not at all." He takes his wand out and charms the books to float towards the desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious as he did so.

But Astoria has turned her attention to the books on a couple of shelves, from which none slid out when she charmed her list. She runs her fingers against the spines a little more carefully this time, scanning the titles.

"Are these alchemical manuscripts?" She sounds astounded.

"Wha-? Oh, those. Yeah, they're my personal collection."

She stares at him searchingly for a few seconds. "I didn't know anyone our age is actually interested in such an esoteric subject… not trying to make a Philosopher's Stone, are you?" she asks, but he can see she's half-joking.

"Of course not," he snorts. "I'm not interested in living forever - I've seen quite enough to last me a lifetime, thanks – " he stops abruptly, realizing he's said more than he meant to.

She raises an eyebrow but chooses not to comment on his slip-up. "How about turning metals into gold?"

He shrugs the question off. "I never really attempted to do more than read about them."

Astoria turns back to his collection. "But this is really impressive, Draco."

"For a one-year collection, I suppose," he agrees. "I only started last year. That's my first," he points to a manuscript that looked positively medieval.

"It's French," Astoria notes in surprise. "Is that –?"

"One of Flamel's works, yeah. I got it on a side-trip to France." It was a side-trip he took on his way up Bulgaria, hoping against hope that he'll see her there. But apparently she never left the country, and having hoped in vain, he had needed a distraction.

"What about the concept?"

"Sorry?"

"What's so interesting about the concept of turning metals into gold?" She looks genuinely curious.

He pauses to think of an adequate answer. He's never really looked into his fascination too deeply. "I suppose," he says slowly, "I just find it interesting how the basest of metals all along had the properties to transform into something more precious. Makes you realize there's always more to things, I – what?" He notices the expression on Astoria's face.

She smiles, a shy but endearingly genuine expression that lit up her face. "I'm really glad it's you right here and not anyone else."

He wants to give a witty, snarky reply. But truthfully, he's just equally glad it's Astoria and not some prick from the Auror Office breathing down his neck. He gives in and returns her smile with a small but equally sincere smile of his own, and then resolutely turns his back and exits the hidden hallway - before he does anything more stupid.

They work mostly in companionable silence for the rest of the day. He takes refuge in the quiet, grateful that Astoria isn't chatty or overbearing the way Pansy Parkinson was when they were together. As she pores through the books, he finds his mind wandering, back to that rainy night in London, when he decided he'd leave her for good. He sneaks a glance at Astoria for the umpteenth time, a thousand perfectly useless what if's percolating his head. And then he curses himself inwardly for even thinking them.

He makes the mistake of inviting her for dinner that night, as she's about to leave. She purses her lips, looking uncertain. "Draco, I'd love to, but…"

 _But you're utter shite and I don't hang with your sort of rubbish._

"But I promised I'll meet Edward for dinner," she finishes apologetically. Suddenly he wishes she just voiced out his thoughts instead.

"Right," he hears himself reply in a colourless voice, his face back into a smooth, cold mask. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Draco watches as Astoria disappears into the green flames, half-wishing it's the last time he sees her. His eyes wander to the bare spot on the wall where his portrait used to hang, remembering how it was to be a child with the world at his fingertips – back when everything came in black and white. Somewhere along the way everything had gone wrong, somehow, and lately he's been wondering when he'll stop making stupid mistakes, the consequences of which always seemed to blow up in his face, regardless of how little he gave a damn.

Every day after that, as he watches her get enveloped by the flames and vanish, he reminds himself of the same thing: _I was never in love with you._ Every day he gets more convinced that it's a lie. Polite, small talk somehow bloomed into little conversations with Astoria and every day he just wants more. It's like an unspeakable addiction and he's helpless. At some point he stops resisting, thinking that Edward Macmillan can go fuck himself. He finds ways to touch her, somehow - a tap on the shoulder, a pat on the back, the lightest and briefest brushing of her hair with his hand, and after a while he wonders why she doesn't call him out for it. Dangerously, he begins to suspect that she's secretly looking forward to moments like these, too.


	6. Chapter 5: The Maiden and the Moon

**A/N:** Took me long enough, I know! But I really enjoyed writing this one, especially because Astoria really came to her own in this one. I unearthed a lot of things about her when I was writing (meaning I took a lot of time shaping her backstory - something I wasn't really planning to do but is apparently really helpful in creating characters. But for this chapter you just get the gist. Heh). But all along the question I had in mind, really, was what kind of girl is Astoria, for her to sustain a full-blown relationship with someone like Draco Malfoy? Here's my answer of sorts, I guess.

Aaaaanddd this is also my longest chapter yet, so I hope that makes up for the slow update. Please review; I'd love to hear what you think of the characters, especially (because this writing challenge is sort of a very extensive character sketch anyway). And thank you so much for reading and patiently waiting! :)

PS: The black rose here is a cocktail drink of French vermouth I think and blackberry syrup. In case you're wondering.

 **DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Harry Potter :(

* * *

She could see the back of his pale blond head from the distance, even in the dim light. She had half-expected a pretty girl beside him, flirting, but noted to her satisfaction that he was by himself. She strode towards him, her hands tightly gripping her purse, stilettos click-clacking against the marble floor in time with the music of the bar. He was in a Muggle suit again, she noticed, and not being drunk this time, she noticed how well it looked on him, the tailored form giving him a strong, sleek appearance.

She slid gracefully onto the bar stool beside his, knowing it was an irresistible announcement of her presence.

"You're not supposed to be here," he drawled, barely sparing her a glance. It felt like déjà vu. "Isn't today supposed to be Daphne's dinner party or something?"

"Oh, you're talking to me now?" said Astoria mildly, very thinly veiling the dangerous edge that had crept in her voice.

Draco gave her a look. "You sat next to me."

She shrugged. "Yes, and I wrote you a letter. Letters. I've learned not to expect any response." Although, of course, he was entirely right on both counts: it was Daphne's dinner party, and she did purposely seek him in the very same Muggle bar where they'd last met.

The mention of her unanswered letters seemed to grant Draco some understanding, because he stiffened and turned back to his drink. Astoria asked for a black rose from the bartender.

They had barely seen each other after the incident at the bar, but they had been writing constantly for around three weeks now. That is, until he stopped replying altogether. She had sent around nine letters since his last reply.

It started innocently enough - she made sure of that. She had sent him a light, friendly note thanking him for his courtesy that night he found her drinking alone, and telling him that she had found herself a flat in London where she would stay until the family debacle died down. Draco had responded hesitantly at first, and she guessed it was because he was so used to receiving just business letters and the occasional hate mail that her thank-you note came as a complete surprise. She inferred from Daphne's stories that there weren't so many people keen on keeping his acquaintance; at least not for the last five years. Not, she suspected, that he was keen on keeping any, himself. She guessed that after Crabbe died, it had been rather traumatic for him and Goyle to keep each other company. Last she heard he wasn't even anywhere in Britain. His friendship with Theo Nott had also turned bitter by the end, when Nott Senior was sent to Azkaban while the Malfoy family had avoided prison altogether by defecting right before the war ended. Pansy Parkinson, too, apparently, had not so much as waved a hello in his direction since they broke up. She wasn't entirely sure why Blaise Zabini put up with him unlike the others, but she suspected it was mainly because of business. Although, based on the fact that Draco and her new brother-in-law weren't exactly drinking chums, she suspected that a full-fledged friendship with such a disdainful arsehole was probably far less comfortable than isolation.

Draco's short and awkward reply had not deterred Astoria from sending her next owl, although, she observed, he wrote his replies always more guardedly than she did. While she was warmly candid in her letters, he was careful to divulge nothing of too much significance to him, even if he took care not to sound too distant. This way he probably learned more about her than she about him, but Astoria didn't mind in the least. She had foreseen the possibility, after all, and decided she'll write him anyway. The letters came and went, and before long, no matter how he tried to keep her nose out of his business, it seemed that he began, slowly but surely, craving to know hers.

When his owl stopped arriving she knew that the craving was starting to scare him. Either that, or he was starting to suspect she only wrote because she saw his loneliness and pitied him, ever since that night he woke up from a nightmare screaming and sobbed into her arms. But Astoria had not written completely out of pity. It was more out of this strange compulsion to know him, to _know_ this man who she once thought she knew, to understand this strange man in all his mystery and his many-layered complexities, because - just because. She didn't bother seeking out any specific reasons, or pretending to have any, knowing that such pretence would both be futile and unwise.

Her drink had arrived. She took a sip, and then took a deep breath. "You are loathsome and worthless," she hissed vehemently, "vile and cruel and yet too cowardly to watch the world burn, and _I despise you_. You're _pathetic_ , and I don't know why I bothered with you in the first place."

Beside her, Draco spluttered, nearly choking on his drink. _"Excuse me?"_ He looked outraged, she noted with satisfaction. _Good. No masks today._

"You were waiting for me to say that, weren't you?"

He glared stonily at her. "No, why the fuck would I?"

"The thing is, you'd never hear me say it. Well, you just did - but you'd never hear me actually _mean_ it. So stop holding your breath, Malfoy."

He opened his mouth to argue, then clamped it shut.

She fished out a blackberry from her glass and popped it into her mouth, waiting.

"I don't need your pity, Astoria."

 _Ah. There it was._

"Good. I never had any to give. Blackberry?" she offered the last one she fished out from her glass.

"No, thanks."

She nodded and ate the blackberry herself. From her peripheral vision she could see Draco trying to second-guess himself again. She decided to interrupt his overthinking.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Draco Malfoy, that all those times you ignored my letters I was the one who needed a friend? Who needed company?" she asked conversationally, knowing the answer was no. For someone who grew up having been made to believe that the world revolved around him, whether it turned for or against him was immaterial.

He did look taken aback. "You want to be friends?"

She looked at him sharply for a moment. "No, not exactly," she said cryptically, watching amusedly as his forehead creased.

"Then what - ?"

"Do you really need an explanation for everything? I need a drink, and I didn't want to look like a complete tosser so I had to look for company, and I had an inkling a certain platinum-headed prick would be here. Drinking alone has its dangers, as you would know, and since I still haven't got a real boyfriend to keep arseholes at bay, in case you've forgotten –"

"I haven't."

"You haven't, have you?"

"You were saying?"

"I was saying I think you'll do." The corners of her lips twitched. Draco's lips were pressed in a tight line. "Though I still maintain I don't need a boyfriend to be my bodyguard."

"Why do you need a drink anyway?" he huffed. "You haven't been disowned, have you?"

"So you actually care?"

"Of course I – do you really do this to people?"

"Do what?" she asked innocently.

He rolled his eyes. "This, this – " he gestured with his hand, "this. Putting people on the spot. Watching them squirm."

She laughed outright. "So you're squirming?"

"Just answer the fucking question, Greengrass."

Astoria grinned. "Well then yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

He groaned exasperatedly. "I meant the question as to whether or not you got disowned."

"No, Draco, I haven't gotten disowned yet. I haven't exactly married a Muggle yet, have I?"

He paused, looking at her uncertainly. "You're not planning to, are you?"

She shrugged. "Unless you have any alternative marriage proposals to offer?"

"Sorry, Greengrass, but you're not really my type," he sneered.

"Well, that's a pity."

It was a while before Astoria broke the silence again. "It was the night Dumbledore died, wasn't it?" She asked quietly, contemplating on the melting ice in her glass. "That night you were here."

Draco didn't reply.

"Tomorrow is my father's death anniversary."

She was surprised when his warm, wand-calloused hand wrapped tentatively around hers. "I'm sorry," he said, and then let her hand go.

She looked at him and smiled. "Buy me a bottle of champagne."

"What?"

"Buy me a bottle of champagne and come with me," she amended.

"Astoria – "

"Look," she held up a hand to silence him, "I'm going to be horrifically sentimental tonight, though I promise you I won't cry. I'll tell you my life story. Whatever. And I'll make you listen. But I'm not going to do that in this unfamiliar Muggle bar, to the tune of some awfully tuneless Muggle music, alright?"

He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked like he was attempting to reason with a madwoman. "What if I just buy you a bottle?"

Astoria threw him her coldest glare. "Then don't bother. I'll probably break it on your head."

"Very funny," Draco retorted. And then he called the bartender.

* * *

It smelled of damp earth – of dew on the blades of grass. It smelled of the cool lake breeze. Exactly as she remembered it. The silence, too, was exactly as she remembered – only their breathing and the rustle of the leaves and the soft cicada songs. For a moment, she was a little girl again, delighting in how the placid lake mirrored the glowing heavens. It was an unusually bright night, and she knew that on such nights, the inky, starless sky was the moon's theatre, waiting to be revealed from swathes and swathes of pearly grey clouds that hung like curtains from a dark ceiling.

She picked a spot along the bank, kicked her heels off her feet, and felt the grass tickle her soles and hug every gap between her toes. And then she noticed Draco Malfoy watching her, back too rigid and arms folded tightly across his chest. With his stiff Muggle suit and his awkward stance, he looked almost comical against the pristine backdrop.

"What are you doing?" Astoria laughed, plopping down unceremoniously on her chosen spot. She waved a beckoning hand.

"What are _you_ doing?" The question was a half-hearted drawl that failed to conceal his uncertainty.

"Enjoying the view," she grinned. "You're going to give me a stiff neck if you don't sit anytime soon."

"It would serve you right, then, dragging me to who-knows-where," he muttered grumpily. She watched as he reluctantly claimed a spot beside hers. "Where are we, anyway?"

Astoria raised her eyes to the skies. The moon was still hiding beneath the clouds. She sighed.

"I used to come here as a child. My father would bring me here whenever he wanted to some peace."

She undid the fastenings in her hair until her dark tresses tumbled loose, gracefully cascading down her back. Draco watched in silence, entranced, as she laid back down, resting her head on the grass.

"You still don't know why I brought you here, of all places, do you? And you don't know why you came with me anyway?"

There was a reluctant pause as he contemplated the waters of the lake. "Yeah, I suppose that's true."

She smiled a little. "The truth. The truth, Draco Malfoy, is that I don't know either." Astoria knew she was generally a rational person, but she's been known to act impulsively from time to time. She knew she was being impulsive at the very moment. She didn't care.

"All I know," she continued, "is that there are some questions worth pursuing, and some the answers to which you simply have to wait for life to give you."

Draco did not reply, but took off his suit and finally lowered his back to the grass. Astoria could tell from even his smallest movements that he was still tense, as though ready for take-off any moment. She shifted her head so that she was facing him directly, the grass scratching the curve of her cheek.

There were a thousand things at the tip of her tongue. She wanted to tell him not to be afraid; she wanted to say he didn't have to pretend so much. Not with her. She wanted him to believe that he was free to be himself - free to _be free_ , with her, because she was someone who could stand in his darkness and not cower. But she remembered that here was a boy who's been told what he had to do and what he ought to be all his life, and she didn't want to be another one to tell him "don't, Draco."

So instead, she smiled at him gently, lightly, and said, "Relax. I won't bite."

He seemed to have heard in those simple words all the things she didn't want to say out loud because his head turned towards her, his grey moonstone eyes locking into hers, searching deep down and seeing right to her very core. "I know."

"You're worried," she observed. She could see it in his eyes, read it in the tight way he responded. _What are you worried about, Draco Malfoy?_

He shifted back to gaze at the sky. The silence felt like it would stretch on and on, until he broke it.

"I'm not a good man, Astoria."

He sounded like he'd said it a hundred times now.

"I'm getting tired of hearing it," she sighed, tearing her eyes away from his profile.

"I've only said it now," he pointed out.

"Precisely my point."

He stiffened. "You think this is a joke, do you? You make light of everything, and I can't blame you because you don't know what it was like – what I was like! You weren't here!" he spat angrily, harshly. "You've no idea what you're talking about."

"I remember what you were like," she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I was still there, you know, when you were struggling to murder the headmaster. Not that I paid particular attention to any of my sister's friends at the time, but when the Death Eaters came to Hogwarts…" her voice faltered. "I know," she tried again, "that you're not a good person, Draco. I never claimed you were. But if we'd deem a person evil just by a handful of wrongs he'd committed, then shun him for the rest of his life, we'd be left with nobody to respect. We'd all be lonely and pathetic because we'd have nobody left to love. Not even ourselves."

Something in the way she spoke must have caught his attention because he turned to look at her again. "How can you be so sure of that?" he asked almost hoarsely, his voice flat. Right then she knew, even if he didn't, that after five years he was still waiting for some sort of redemption. She remembered how he stared at his hands that night he had woken up from a nightmare.

"I'm not," she admitted. "But it's what I believe all the same."

Draco fell into a pensive silence, to the point that made Astoria wonder whether he'd fallen asleep. She needed to keep him awake, because somehow she felt the night was not yet over.

"I've never really liked you, you know," she said. She heard him snort in response. "Really! But for such a perfectly slimy git that you were, you had one redeeming quality."

She heard him smirk. "I knew you'd work in my good looks somewhere…"

Astoria laughed. It was good to hear him get cheeky from time to time. At least he wasn't angry anymore. "No, you ponce. It's that you love your family, and they love you."

That shut him up.

"I used to resent you so much. If you only knew…" she shook her head. "There you were, a complete and utter prick, and yet your mother absolutely _doted_ on you, it was almost nauseating. I'd secretly watch during holiday gatherings, and then hate you all the more for it.

"I wished with all my heart, back then, that my own mother would show me as much affection as your mother did to you. It never happened. One day, I just stopped wishing."

"What happened?"

She peered at him, trying to figure out whether he was sleepy. "Draco, I'll tell you the story but don't you dare fall asleep," she demanded.

"I might if I get bored," he sneered, making Astoria roll her eyes.

She proceeded, nonetheless. "I stopped wishing, because I found out that the night I was conceived, my father was drunk and Mother had taken the opportunity and seduced him, but then," she swallowed, "it was another woman's name he screamed when they fucked."

Draco stared at her, unable to fully mask the horror written on his face. "Fuck."

 _Fuck, indeed,_ she privately agreed. "I was thirteen when I found out. I heard them arguing," she added, foreseeing his question.

"She loved him once, I think. She was ecstatic when she found out they were to be betrothed or something."

"But he never did," he guessed.

"But he never did," she confirmed. "He'd fallen in love with this Muggle woman after Daphne was born. He left the house for a while. Two years, in fact. When he returned, she was probably hopeful that he'd had a change of heart. And then that happened, and – you could just imagine. After that, well… I couldn't very well demand love from my mother when she'd been through all that, now, could I? In an ideal world, she'd ignore the fact that I was completely blameless, of course, but people are strange and flawed that way, I suppose. I could hate her back, and sometimes I really do, but…" she shrugged.

"As a child it was a consolation that at least my father loved me dearly, but when I found out… I started to wonder whether he just did because he was just trying to compensate for all his shortcomings. Whether he loved me more because he just felt guilty. I could have really loathed him, too, you know? He was a cheat and an arse to my mother but…" she sighed. "I loved him all the same. I had to learn to - mainly because I didn't want to live like my mother, just hating him for the rest of her life."

She fell silent for a moment, remembering how cold and unfeeling her mother was at her father's funeral.

"I know the world isn't a dichotomy of black and white," she said softly after a while. "No need to lecture me about good men, Draco Malfoy."

Draco didn't answer. Astoria peered at him again, and found his eyes closed.

"Draco," she called testily, propping herself up and leaning towards him to check if he really was asleep. She didn't expect his eyes to flutter open and his hand to brush away the stray tendrils of hair on her face. He tucked them behind her ear, his palm finding rest on the curve of her nape, his eyes on hers, both intense and unfathomable at the very moment.

Years later, Astoria still won't be able to recall whether it was she who had then leaned into him or he who had pulled her closer. She'd only remember how their lips met, foreign and familiar, passionate and serene, fleeting and infinite - all at the same time. She'd remember how he'd tasted of Firewhiskey even if he had probably been drinking something else entirely earlier that evening, and how his mouth had been far, far warmer than the hands that had grasped both sides of her face. Years later, she'd remember.

At the moment, however, she was only aware of his lips and her heartbeats and Draco Malfoy himself - real and maybe a little cold and broken but real - more real than any other boy she'd ever been with.

They let go the moment the huge full moon lit up the sky, both laying back down on the grass as though nothing of consequence had happened. Astoria stared at the moon, listening to the silent whirring of Draco's brain.

"You could make of it whatever you'd like," she offered. "I wouldn't mind."

"Pardon me?"

"The kiss."

"Oh."

And then he fell back into his silence.

She sat up, reaching for the bottle of champagne that had been untouched since they got to the lake. She conjured two glasses using the wand in her purse, and Draco must have heard the clinking because he sat up, too. And that was when his eyes fell on the lake. He tried to stifle a gasp, but Astoria understood.

The lake was beautiful by its placid self. But lit up by the moon, the whole place was transformed by into someplace more enchanting - somewhere that had depth. There was more light, but also more shadow, and yet strangely the juxtaposition simply made the place come to life. The lake mirrored the moon perfectly.

"You've been waiting for the moon to show up, haven't you?"

She smiled, glad that he could tell. "They say there's nowhere else the moon shines as beautifully."

Draco glanced at her sideways. "Oh?"

"There's a story behind it – my grandmother used to tell me about it when she was still alive. Champagne?"

He accepted the flute with thanks.

"There was once a witch who fell in love with the moon," she began without preamble.

"How on earth could a girl fall in love with the moon?" he snorted derisively.

Astoria pursed her lips. "It's a story, Draco."

He shrugged indifferently, taking a sip of champagne.

"So there was once a witch who fell in love with the moon. So enamoured was she by his beauty that she would fly to the tallest towers and the highest perches every night, just so she could admire him.

"The moon was a creature of poor spirits, always envying the sun for his brightness, constantly wishing he had no craters. He didn't understand why the witch kept on following him, so one full moon, he gave in and asked her: 'what do you see in me, witch? What is it that you want?'

"The witch admitted that she was in love with him. She said she found him beautiful.

"The moon still didn't understand. He pointed out his craters and the shadows they cast, and the fact that his light was merely borrowed from the sun.

"Still the witch insisted she loved him. The moon didn't believe her, and refused to hear any more from her. She was heartbroken. And so, she went to a glade in the woods where she knew the moon shone brightly, and drowned herself in her tears."

Draco looked almost amused. "Well, that was pathetic," he remarked.

"That might be because I'm not yet actually done telling the story," she pointed out drily.

"Right," he muttered.

"The following day, the glade was gone, and in its place was a lake, the waters of which were extraordinarily calm. The witch, in fact, had transfigured herself into a lake. Every full moon, after that fateful night, the lake – this lake – would reflect the beauty of the moon like no other body of water on earth. Or so my grandmother says, anyway."

"I'm positive even McGonagall can't transfigure herself into a lake."

Astoria gave him a look. "It's a story, Malfoy," she repeated. "I assure you I quite agree with your assessment that girls can't just go transforming themselves into lakes."

"Or falling in love with moons," he added.

Astoria looked thoughtfully at him. "Hmm."

"What?"

"I really liked that story, you know."

"Well I didn't," he grimaced. "What was there to like?"

She smiled. "Whenever he'd gaze down at her he'd be reminded of the fact that someone saw him as he was and thought he was beautiful for it." She wasn't entirely sure she was still talking about the story. Draco fell silent at her words and turned his eyes back to the lake.

"It's a story, Draco." she said for the third time.

He looked at her again with those unfathomable eyes. "Or is it." It wasn't a question.

Her smile grew enigmatic, and then she drained her glass. When she had refilled both their glasses she held hers up in a toast. "That's for you to figure out, Draco."

He pulled a corner of his lips into a half-smile – a reluctant one, but a smile nonetheless – and clinked his glass against hers. And then his smile faded. "I think I might already have," he whispered, before tipping his flute to his mouth and finishing all the champagne.


	7. Chapter 6: Confrontations

**A/N:** Dear readers, I'm so sorry for the late upload! There's been a lot going on and I had to put work first. I also admit I got stuck writing this. I've rewritten and edited this chapter again and again, even before I finished writing the entire thing, and that slowed me down quite a bit. What happened here is essentially what I planned to happen, but how it happens, I discovered, really is entirely different thing and it depends on character. There were times when I wrote Draco to be too empathetic, or Astoria - it's hard to talk about Astoria without spoiling it for you so just read on.

This is also probably the most fragmented chapter because this one has the most number of scenes so far, but I certainly hope I gave them justice, especially as this chapter is the one that hits closest to home. ;) anyway, enjoy. :)

* * *

Astoria is lounging comfortably on her seat, taking a break from all the reading and note-taking, when she asks, "Whose is it?"

Draco follows her line of sight, directed towards an old harp tucked in a corner of the library.

"Your mother's?" guesses Astoria.

He stares at the harp for a few seconds before he remembers. "No, actually. It's my mother's sister's."

"Your Aunt Bella's?" she tries to hide the surprise in her face, but her voice betrays her. For someone who has an opinion on everything, she really tries hard not to sound like it. He smirks.

"Yeah, because she's exactly the harp-playing, poetry-writing type of woman…"

"Clever, aren't you?" she gives him a playful shove on the shoulder, and he tries to ignore the racing of his pulse and the flipping of his stomach.

"It's Andromeda's," he tells her, and she sobers up almost immediately.

"She's the one who…?"

"Who got disowned, yeah."

"I was going to say who married a Muggle-born. But I suppose that's also accurate," she allows. "What's it doing here?"

Draco scratches his chin thoughtfully. "She gave it to my mother before she eloped with that - with that Muggle-born, Tonks. Mother didn't have the heart to throw it away, but she won't admit it, so the harp somehow ended up here, out of everyone's way" He shrugs. "Father doesn't know it's Andromeda's, or he would have had it thrown out."

"That would have been wasteful."

She stands and drifts towards the instrument, a little hesitant once it's right in front of her.

"You can play it, if you know how," Draco offers.

He watches as she takes her place behind the instrument, watches the way she rests her head very lightly by the harp's knee as its slanting body lay on her shoulder, how her slender arm stretches out to reach the farthest strings, how her fingers begin to enchantingly weave their way through a melody that is strangely, achingly familiar. He watches, enthralled - more enthralled with the serenity in her closed eyes and the fluid motion of her arms and the way her fingers dance from string to string, than with the music itself. When she plucks the last note, she looks straight at him, and with that now-familiar jolt, Draco wonders again if she sometimes sees through his very soul.

"I've heard it again and again in my head," she says softly, as she starts playing the same melody for the second time. "But I can't, for the life of me, remember where I first heard it."

"It's a waltz," Draco realizes, and Astoria simply nods. But Draco realizes that more than being a waltz, it's _the_ waltz, the music to which they first held hands and danced. It feels like years ago. He decides to steer clear of dangerous waters.

"You might have danced to the tune, with Macmillan, don't you think?" He asks her nonchalantly, as though the fact that she remembers doesn't feel like a slowly-healing wound being picked at again.

She considers for a moment, her fingers suddenly still. "Perhaps," she allows. "But it should have been memorable, shouldn't it? Because I remember the tune. And if it were, there's no reason I shouldn't remember when I first heard it."

 _Oh, it_ was _memorable._

"But you don't remember."

She smiles ruefully at him and decides to give up on the harp. She goes back to the couch, picking the seat beside him. "No. I don't think anything significant happened to us at a ball or a dance or something like that. Besides, that would be almost too cliché, don't you think?"

Draco contains a grimace _. Cliché, my arse._ "Well, how _did_ you meet him?" he asks, despite himself.

Astoria raises an eyebrow at his acerbic tone, but he could tell she's amused. It makes him feel more irate. "We met at St. Mungo's, funnily enough. I've just gotten off from consulting with my Healer and thought I'd fancy some tea – "

"Don't tell me you just met at the Visitor's Tearoom?" he exclaims derisively. _What kind of shite hits on girls at a fucking hospital's tearoom?_

"What do you have against tearooms?" she laughs. "But admittedly it was pretty unromantic," she says affably. "He was in such a hurry that we sort of collided and I spilled tea all over his robes. It was so embarrassing, and I was so relieved that he was very nice about it."

"Of course he'd be," he waves his hand impatiently, "you're a very pretty witch." He says it in the most offhanded way, as if her face had never haunted him in his dreams.

Astoria takes the compliment in stride. "He's none too shabby either, as you've seen – "

"I haven't, actually," Draco interrupts. He's not in the mood to hear Astoria wax poetic about that prick. "If you're talking about that encounter at the Ministry reception, I'll have you know I wasn't paying much attention to anything – "

"Except me," she says quietly, and his heart stops for a moment. She's not smiling, not flirting, not really – but she's scrutinizing him with an intensity that makes him very uncomfortable, so he schools his face into the familiarity of indifference and shrugs.

"You're a very pretty witch," he repeats, flatly.

A corner of Astoria's mouth lifts. "Fair enough," she concedes. "Shall I continue with my story, then?"

"If you like," Draco shrugs again, this time an attempt to lift the weight off his shoulders. Some sadistic impulse must be behind Astoria, he thinks, because she decides to proceed despite his obvious disinterest.

As with the harp, he watches her again instead, desperately trying to tune out her words. He watches how she talks with her hands, as she was wont to do whenever she was comfortable with the conversation (with him, it was surprisingly often). He watches the sparkle in her eyes as she talks of Macmillan - this other boy who's perfectly pleasant and thoughtful and warm; this boy who's known all along how to make her laugh (all the while Draco thinks he's never been able to make her do anything at all). Draco watches as her whole face lights up as she speaks (as he feels his own heart implode and crumble into dust, hating himself all the more for feeling so weak).

Finally he notices the room has gone quiet, and Astoria is once again examining him like she would a book, never mind what Aunt Bella used to say about the human mind during Occlumency lessons.

"Are you…" she hesitates. "Are you alright?" She reaches out a hand that hovers tantalizingly close to his cheek but settles on his shoulder.

He nods, as curtly as he could. He thinks if he speaks he might scream. He unfolds his hands, which he's unknowingly clenched into fists so tightly that his fingernails dug little welts into his palms.

Finding his voice, he says, coldly, "I just remembered I need to attend to something, sorry." He stands abruptly and exits the room as calmly as he can, ignoring the confusion written all over Astoria's face as her hand falls limply back to her lap.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he hears her call out when he's standing by the door. He doesn't bother answering.

He doesn't return to the study that night, even if some idiot part of him wants to check whether Astoria stayed to make sure he's alright. Instead he locks himself in his room, punching walls and later, when his knuckles are already badly bruised, pillows. When he's finally exhausted all his pent up frustration he plops down the bed and lies still, not even bothering to get the lights when the sun finally set, not even bothering to get up for dinner. When the new house elf pesters him for dinner, he pelts him with the nearest thing he could grope from his bedside table - this time an inkwell that's still half full. It flies like some bizarre meteor, leaving an inky trail in its wake, badly staining his carpet. The house-elf disapparates just in time, and the inkwell falls with a rather lame thud on the floor.

He lies listening to the clock chime midnight, trying to ignore more than the pain in his knuckles. But he wonders whether he can take another day like this, wondering when they'll stop dancing between the walls of their own thoughts and emotions, wondering, not for the first time, when he'll ever stop giving a damn.

* * *

They are down to the last couple of books. He knows even before Astoria tells him so because he's been tracking their progress probably even more intently than she was. She works in silence, while Draco doesn't bother pretending he can concentrate. He watches her instead, and notes that the silence isn't the comfortable one he's grown accustomed to. Rather, it's one that hung thick with tension and anticipation, and even dread, that things are coming to a close. He watches as she flips page after page after page, and wonders if the speed at which she works is merely time mocking him. He observes as her parchment for notes steadily fills with her loopy scrawl in that burgundy ink she seems to favour. When she does close the last volume, she rests her palm on its ancient leather cover and gives him a small smile.

"That's the last of it, isn't it? You're finally shot of me," says Astoria, a flimsy attempt at humour.

Draco doesn't smile back. Instead, he boldly puts his hand over hers, feeling immensely satisfied when she looks at him questioningly but doesn't pull away.

"Astoria," he says, not really knowing what to tell her, but painfully aware of the fact that there are far too many things they have to talk about.

Her expression is unreadable as her gaze shifts from his hand to his face. She takes a deep breath and Draco, anticipating rejection, decides to withdraw his hand and preserve some of his dignity. Her fingers twitch but otherwise her palm stays on the book. She takes another deep breath. "Come with me tomorrow."

"What?" For some reason she's always dragging him off elsewhere.

She smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach the turmoil in her eyes. "Come with me tomorrow," she repeats, more resolutely, this time. "I'll meet you here, if you want." And then she cocks her head to the side. "Unless you'd rather not?"

For some reason, he's always willing to go.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere I'd rather not be alone."

* * *

Draco Malfoy has never believed in destiny. He's never believed in fate. It's one of the reasons he resented Harry Potter. To him it just so happened that Potter was born on the right side.

Yet as he stands before the very same doorstep he once thought he'd abandoned forever, he can't help but wonder whether fate is playing tricks on him. The door is the exact same shade of charcoal he remembers, standing in vivid contrast to the whitewashed brick walls of the building. A few feet above him, he can easily pick out the window to Astoria's room, never mind that all the windows of this building looked identical. He decided last night to act like the gentleman he isn't and pick Astoria up from her London flat, but he hadn't anticipated dealing with the overwhelming familiarity of her old life - that which he once was part of. That which he'd callously thrown away.

Somewhere above him a bell rings. He swallows hard as he grasps the doorknob, very much regretting now that he ever volunteered to come pick her up instead.

He finds himself retracing familiar steps as he traipses through the hallway and up the wooden stairs with its spindly banisters, until finally he stands before the door at the second-floor landing. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The door opens by itself, by magic, he supposes. That's new. Before, she opened it herself, smiling warmly as she ushered him in. The photographs that hung on her walls were new, too, he realizes with a pang. He almost double-takes when he sees her face on one of the frames, smiling radiantly at Edward Macmillan, who of course is beaming back.

Suddenly he feels sick in the stomach. He reminds himself sternly that he's the one standing in Astoria's living room right now, not Edward fucking Macmillan, not any other man for that matter.

"You're late," remarks Astoria lightly from behind him.

Draco tears his eyes away from the photographs and turns to face Astoria, who is smiling at him brightly. She is in casual Muggle clothes today - just a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, but the most noticeable thing is her hair, free from the elegant, loose knot she usually sports when she's in more formal attire, which was almost all the time. It fell down to her back in rich, dark waves.

"I - yeah, sorry about that," he replies, momentarily tongue-tied. His mind is insisting on the image of Astoria the first time he saw her with her hair down, when they both lay on the grass and kissed.

Her smile fades when her eyes slide from his perplexed features to the photographs on the wall behind him. He could see her swallow hard at her second thoughts, and if he were a bit more noble he'd offer her a way out. But he isn't – he wasn't, ever – and he isn't going to pretend he is now. Besides, he doesn't see the point of depriving himself of something he wants terribly when it's already right under his nose, ready for him to snatch. _Not that I haven't already made that mistake,_ he thinks to himself bitterly.

So he moves sideward to block the photo from her view and gives her a winning smile. "You're not docking points from me for that, are you?" he drawls.

Astoria rolls her eyes but smiles cautiously anyway. "Between you and me, you're the one who's into that sort of thing," she retorts as she gathers a scarf and a beret.

"We're disapparating from here; it's safer," she tells him, holding out a hand. Draco takes it unabashedly. When she feels her hesitate, he grips her hand even more firmly, and Astoria stares.

"Draco –"

"Where are we going anyway?" he interrupts.

She takes the hint and sighs. "You've no idea at all?"

He shrugs carelessly. "I'm more interested in the fact that I'm the one here with you."

Astoria purses her lips but doesn't pretend she doesn't understand. "No clue as to that either?"

He stares at her impassively. He's had enough of this dancing around the unspoken, but Astoria's showing no signs that there's anything unusual with what's going on. He knows they're not _friends._ Friends don't exchange meaningful glances or loaded exchanges or suggestive caresses - especially not when one of them is supposedly already committed to another person. And while admittedly he's done his best in the past couple of weeks to get her to fall for him again, he hasn't anticipated she'd neglect to make up her mind and just go with the flow.

Astoria sighs at his stony silence. "Do you want me to apologize?"

 _For your fucking indecision? What for?_

But he bites his tongue and shrugs. "Let's just go," he mutters, trying to stifle out the anger and the frustration welling up inside him again.

She gives him an apologetic smile and twists. Draco grasps her hand more firmly. A second later they're standing before an arched gate that seemed to be made entirely of delicate, crawling vines sprouting tiny, paper-thin white buds.

They walk in silence through the arch, following a path of ancient cobbled stones winding along a relatively hilly landscape. It probably looked like a garden at some point, a good many years ago, Draco thinks, but the shrubs have long since grown out of their topiary forms, with branches spilling all over the place. What once were neat hedges now looked like thickets in their overgrowth. He sees the same flowering vines at the archway everywhere, growing up gnarled tree trunks and lining stone benches. The place feels of abandonment - almost beautiful in its purity, but rather painfully so. Moss-covered statues of carved stone litter the landscape in no particular order. A closer look at one particularly weather-beaten carved dryad and Draco realizes they aren't just statues but gravestones.

"Astoria," he calls, and she starts, realizing that he's still holding her hand.

He lets go of it, not bothering to hide his exasperation. But instead, he asks, "Why are we here?"

She considers him for a moment. Draco can tell it's a moment that held a thousand words unspoken.

"Take my hand," she finally offers.

He suppresses a sigh. Every time he takes her hand he feels the world rest in his palm. "Why?"

She laughs briefly and bitterly as the hand she just offered him flitted into a brief shrug. And then she folds her arms across her chest, holding herself together.

"This is the public cemetery designated by the Ministry for those who died during the last war," Astoria tells him quietly. "There were too many people dying at that time - both Magic and Muggle alike. Too many bodies to be buried, too many funerals to be held. If the Muggles realized just how many people were dying from all those circumstances which they thought were mostly just freak accidents, they'd panic. So those who were lucky enough to be buried were buried here - mostly by the Ministry, before Thicknesse took over, at least. And then when the war ended, those who died fighting were also buried here."

He gets angrier the more Astoria tells him about the graveyard. It's his turn to fold his arms. "And what? You fancied a stroll here, of all places?" he demands.

"I wanted to visit my father's grave," she retorts defensively.

Her answer registers in his mind a couple of seconds too late. "Here? In a public cemetery?" he asks suspiciously. Traditionally, aristocratic Pure-blood families buried their dead on the soil of their own estates. He can imagine his grandfather Abraxas turn in his grave if he was ever buried elsewhere.

"Yes," she snaps. "My darling mother," she explains, "found a way to get rid of my father forever, in a manner of speaking. When the Ministry came looking for land, my mother seized the opportunity and gave this one away."

Draco stares, appalled.

"When I got back here, right after Beauxbatons, and I saw…" her voice falters, and she gestures at their surroundings with her hand. "You can just imagine," she continues in a colourless voice.

In all honesty, he can't.

She reaches out to him, uncertainly at first, and places a hand on his shoulder. "Draco," says Astoria, looking like she's picking her words very carefully, "I didn't ask you to come with me so you can stare at the graves of those you've outlived, fighting for something you thought you believed in. I'm sorry if you felt that I was forcing you into it, and I hope you know I'll never do that." She shifts her hand to his palm and squeezes, and then lets go. "If you don't feel like going through this and walking all the way just to accompany me, I won't take it against you," she promises. "You can go now."

He stands rooted to the spot. Merlin knows he doesn't want to be here, and if he'd known where they were going he'd have easily made up an excuse. After all, he's seen far too many dead people in his nightmares; he doesn't need the added visual of their graves.

But he's here now.

"Or," Astoria continues, "you can come with me."

More importantly, she's here with him.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, gritting his teeth. He casts his eyes around the graveyard, seeing the years that have slowly but surely eroded it. And then he turns to Astoria, realizing that he might at least have an idea of how tomorrow will go if he walks her into it. "I'll go," he says, and then swallows. "With you."

She doesn't say anything, only holds a hand out for him to take.

This time around, he does.

* * *

It's evening by the time he returns her to her flat. Draco feels minute after minute literally slip past his grasp, building in him a certain sense of urgency. After all, he's not sure when he'll see her again, or if he ever will. He lingers in the unlit hallway with Astoria, hating how it is that he's always waiting for her goodbye.

"So," he finally says, breaking the fragile silence that has been plaguing them both the whole day. But he can't come up with a coherent string of words, thinking that it's about damn time that Astoria does the talking, anyway.

"Well," she says, in a calm voice that's a lie when taken together with the tension in her movements, "thank you, Draco. I'm really glad you went with me." She smiles a tight-lipped smile.

"You're welcome," he says shortly. He watches as she turns and realizes she's about to unbolt the main door and let him out. Before she can touch the latch, he blocks her with his arm, pressing his hand firmly against the wall behind her.

She stares at him in surprise. "What – ?"

He raises his other arm to block her from her other side as well. "'What,'" he echoes. "I should be asking you that question. What are we doing, Astoria?"

She looks thoroughly taken aback. "I –"

"What, your boyfriend just isn't free today and you needed a chaperon to hold your hand?"

"It's not like that, Draco –"

"Then what?"

He watches her take a couple of deep breaths, trying to contain herself – from what, he couldn't guess. He's sick of guessing. The first time he came to know Astoria he had thought she read like an open book. Now, he's not so sure, and it's unnerving.

"What do you want, Astoria?" he asks again, more quietly this time.

"I don't know," she whispers in an anguished voice.

He leans in closer, watching her eyes flutter involuntarily, watching her lips part.

"Don't you?"

He thinks there's nothing more he wants than to just stop watching, stop thinking -

"Draco," she says, and he doesn't know if it's a warning, or a plea, or neither, or both.

He leans in closer still, and he can almost, but not quite, swim and lose himself in the depths of those eyes.

"Make. Up. Your. Mind."

She closes her eyes, breathing heavy, steadying breaths, and he pulls back with a rueful sigh.

And that's when she steps forward and crashes her lips onto his.


End file.
